


'Til It All Burned Down

by alpha_exodus



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Fire, Gardens & Gardening, M/M, Pining, Shirtless Harry Potter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-20
Updated: 2019-07-20
Packaged: 2020-07-09 12:22:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19887736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alpha_exodus/pseuds/alpha_exodus
Summary: Half of the reason Draco likes his job is because he gets to stare at Potter with his shirt off.





	'Til It All Burned Down

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was kind of a silly joke and then turned out to have somewhat of an actual plot (but with plenty of gratuitous Draco-staring-at-Harry-shirtless for you). Unbeta'd, so all mistakes are mine!
> 
> Title from Jeremy Zucker's "Wildfire".

Draco Malfoy loves his job.

Sure, he has to deal with his fair share of wanker customers who get their panties all in a bunch about how “this tree should be two inches to the left _, obviously_ ,” and then try to short him on the payment for it, but if Draco’s good at one thing it’s getting his way in an argument.

Fortunately, Draco is good many more things than simply getting his way—finances, for example, which is the reason he was originally hired at this oddity of a landscaping company. The owner of The Marvelous Watering Can (named after some oddly shaped Muggle tool that Draco vaguely recollects seeing once outside of Hagrid’s shack of a house) didn’t know _anything_ about budgeting or profit margins or haggling with distributors when Draco accepted the position, and Draco has been more than happy to handle that ever since.

But throughout the few years he’s worked here, he’s also become responsible for several other odd tasks and duties, as is wont to happen when one works at a two-person company. Thus, his day can entail anything from flying about London so he can safely transport the more fragile plants, to looking over magical maps and ensuring there aren’t discrepancies before plans are made, and even assisting with the actual landscaping itself.

To be honest, he _hates_ manual labor, absolutely despises the bugs and the filth and the need to get his hands dirty that all come with the task. But he grins and bears it (well, heavily grimaces and bears it, anyway) for one sole reason, which is in fact a fairly big part of why he loves this job so much in general—

He gets to see Harry Potter shirtless.

“Draco, could you hand me that—that thing over there? You know, the tool with the, erm, the scoopy end—”

“The _trowel?_ ” Draco says, carefully lying the magically sensitive tree he’d just lugged over here on its side (nothing venomous, thank Merlin, though it definitely took a swipe at his arse halfway over here) and wiping off the sweat that’s already forming on his brow.

“Yes! That!” Potter exclaims, hands deep in the dirt, beaming as if Draco has just explained to him the meaning of life.

Draco rolls his eyes. “Get it yourself,” he mutters, mostly to hide the insane sense of _fondness_ he feels when Potter grins like that, and then he stands up to hand the trowel over to Potter anyway.

“Thanks,” Potter says, already distracted as he stares down at some particularly tough root in the dirt. Draco briefly admires the movement of Potter’s back muscles, glistening with sweat as Potter digs, before returning to pick up the tree he’d been wrestling with.

It’s taken Draco a long time to understand just why Potter prefers to do most of this the Muggle way. To be fair, there are certain plants such as the tree he now has to plant that are too delicate to have magic such as a _Wingardium_ directly interfering with their own, but everything else can be spelled and casted without having to get down in the dirt even once. But Potter’s explained it enough that Draco sort of gets it now—Potter grew up doing it this way, having forced to work in his barbaric Muggle family’s garden, and Potter says it helps him get some of his frustration and energy out when nothing else can.

Apparently possessing the immense power required to save the Wizarding World also means one is much more prone to fits of anger and accidental magic. Draco’s witnessed Potter’s anger at school before, but not much since. Potter says it’s because of the landscaping work. Draco thinks it’s probably also because Potter has matured since Hogwarts, but if that’s what puts the wind in Potter’s sails, Draco won’t stop him.

“Fancy a drink when we’re done tonight?” Potter asks, and Draco nearly drops the tree on his foot.

He swallows hard and shakes his head. “Apologies, Potter. I have a commitment tonight.”

“You had a commitment _last_ night. And the night before that, and the night before _that_... I know you’re lying,” Potter says, though his tone is light as he sets the trowel down and begins carefully transferring several flowery plants into the ground from a tray at his side.

“Am not,” Draco says, though he absolutely is. He spends enough time with Potter at work as it is. He can’t bear looking at his face for once moment more than he has to—

Mostly because looking at Potter’s face makes his insides twist with longing, and Draco _hates_ that, both because it makes him vulnerable and because he knows Potter would laugh his arse off if he ever found out.

The more time he spends with Potter, the more likely it is that someone will figure out that Draco is head over heels for the speccy, sun-tanned, hard-working, obnoxiously beautiful git.

“Then what’ve you been doing for the past three nights?” Potter asks, looking up at Draco innocently, and Draco scowls and turns away.

“I can’t tell you.”

“Sure,” Potter says, smirking, then adds in a sing-songy voice, “ _Li-ar_.”

“It’s none of your business!” Draco tells him, and it really _isn’t_ any of Potter’s business because all Draco tends to do in the evenings is lie about in his flat reading novels, occasionally penning letters to Pansy and attempting to dodge dinner invitations from his parents. It’s a bit pathetic, really, especially since he knows for a fact that Potter sees his friends practically every other day—he _would_ know, considering Potter usually invites him along.

Draco always turns him down. He supposes he wouldn’t mind hanging out with Potter’s friends, even though they’re a bit of a loud bunch, but he has no interest in having someone catch him staring at Potter.

Because it happens. Frequently. And like the idiot he is, Draco hasn’t been able to force himself to quit it.

It’s a dirty habit, isn’t it, staring at one’s boss half-naked while he works in rich wizarding gardens?

To be fair, they’re more business partners than anything, and Potter hates when Draco calls him his boss. Which is precisely why Draco continues to do it.

“Draco, could you come give me— _ack!_ —a hand, these vines are trying to grab— _no_ , not my glasses! Give those back!”

“Coming, boss,” Draco says, snickering when Potter throws a glare at him. At least he can still get a rise out of Potter, given that Potter _certainly_ can get a rise out of Draco, though it’s usually late at night lying in bed—

Draco firmly decides he’s going to stop that train of thought in its tracks and focus on work now.

xXx

“You sure you don’t want to come out with me?” Potter asks, tugging his gloves off and stuffing them into his pocket, dirt and all.

Draco wrinkles his nose, not bothering to hide his disgust, and fumbles for his wand so he can cast a cleansing charm in Potter’s general direction. “Thanks, but no thanks, Potter,” he says, shrinking his satchel full of equipment and papers. “I’ve got business to attend to.” And by business, he means a relaxing night with a book and a cup of tea, during which he will absolutely not be thinking about how hot Potter’s arse looked in his jeans today, or how Potter patted him on the back toward the end for a job well done and Draco had nearly choked from desperation, from wanting to _touch_ him.

Nope. None of that.

“Fine, fine,” Potter says, raising a hand in farewell. “You know I’m going to keep asking.”

“Why bother?” Draco asks him. And really, he doesn’t understand why Potter does it, seeing that Draco hasn’t once said yes to one of his propositions.

“We work together!” Potter says, as if that explains his infallible positivity toward continuously getting turned down. “’Mione and Ron bring their coworkers to dinner all the time. They always ask about you, you know.”

“Th—wait, really?” Draco asks, genuinely surprised. Then he shakes himself out of it. “I’m sorry, Potter, but I really can’t.”

Pretending he doesn’t see the expression Potter throws at him, one that’s wounded and let down and reminds Draco a bit of the puppy Pansy had as a child, Draco turns and Disapparates.

He has to leave before Potter reels him in, before he twists the hook of desire in Draco’s chest until Draco’s helpless to ignore it.

xXx

Draco cooks dinner, a simple fry up that takes nothing more than a few flicks of his wand, and then he eats on the sofa as he’s done for years just because he knows his father would abhor it.

Then he picks up the novel he started last night, some period mystery thriller about a Dark wizard at large in the 1800s, and he pretends to read it while instead daydreaming about Potter—about his warm gaze and his chest glistening in the summer sun, Merlin.

He thinks about kissing Potter, and what it might feel like to just throw his papers down one day in their office and just press Potter up against the wall.

The office. Some sort of urgent memory pricks at the edges of his consciousness, something about one of the orders that came into their warehouse earlier that morning, but he’s too sleepy to remember it fully.

Resolving to deal with it in the morning, he nods off on the couch, his heart filled to the brim with longing.

xXx

He wakes in the middle of the night to a frantic Floo call from Potter.

“Draco—Draco, you have to come to the warehouse, there’s a fire—I can’t—hurry, _please_ —”

Adrenaline skewers Draco in the stomach, and he leaps up from the sofa, nailing his shin on the edge of the coffee table in the process. “ _Fuck!_ —I’m coming, Potter, _please tell me you called the DMLE—_ ”

“I did, just now, they’re on their way—Merlin, this is all my fault—”

“It is _not_ , Potter, now shut up, I’m coming through,” Draco grumbles, summoning his shoes, dimly aware that he’s accidentally put them on the wrong feet but too anxious to care.

His stomach drops into his throat as he grabs a pinch of Floo Powder and calls out the address to their office.

This is what he’d forgotten earlier: Shrivelfigs are harmless in nearly all circumstances, and they keep a large stock of them at the warehouse, as they’re popular for home-based potioneers. Except earlier that morning, they’d received a shipment of Flaring Rubyflowers, a pretty specimen that releases pleasant sparks of magic when touched.

And the sparks of the Rubyflowers react explosively with Shrivelfigs.

xXx

Draco tumbles out of the Floo and surveys the office, but Potter is nowhere to be found, so he rushes outside and around back to where the entrance to their warehouse is.

Or rather, where it _was_.

Draco sucks in a large breath and stares at the crumbling remnants of the building. The whole south side is gone, decimated by the fire that the Magical Flame and Explosion division of the DMLE is still putting out, and even in the moonlight he can see that many of the plants inside are charred and dead. He can’t imagine the smoke is good for the rest, either.

Several meters ahead stands Potter, still in his pajamas, staring at the flickering of the flames. Draco walks up to him, not even hearing the sounds of his own footsteps, and they wordlessly watch as the MFErs finish their job.

Finally, the flames are out, and Potter starts to rush forward, but Draco catches him in the arm. “Wait,” he says, his voice cracking. “It’s still dangerous, you know that. More could go off.”

Potter’s arms go limp, and he hangs his head miserably. “I can’t believe it. One stupid mistake and this— _this_ happens.”

Draco swallows. “What happened? How did you find out?”

Potter sighs, closing his eyes. “I dunno. I just woke up a couple hours after going to bed, and I just knew I had to go check on the warehouse.”

Not for the first time, Draco wonders if Potter has some sort of Seers ability after all. “I’m sorry,” he says quietly. “I nearly thought about it before bed. I should’ve checked.”

“No, I’m the idiot who ordered them,” Potter says bitterly, shaking his head, staring out at the carnage of their workshop. “Everything I’ve built, five years of stock—gone. Like that. And the expensive Peruvian soil that we just got—I haven’t even been able to _use_ it yet, but the magical properties are so easily damaged—”

“Potter, listen to me—no. _Listen_ ,” Draco says, pushing at Potter’s shoulder so he turns toward him. “It will be _fine_. We are financially stable. You are independently wealthy besides, and even without tapping into your personal funds, we’d be able to buy back most of what he have.”

Potter’s jaw works for a second. “I—are you sure?” He looks on the edge of tears.

“ _Yes_ , Potter,” Draco says. “I’m sure. I can show you documentation if you want. I’m good at business, Potter, that’s why you hired me.”

Slowly, Potter lets out a shaky breath and nods. He doesn’t cry, thank Merlin, because Draco doesn’t know what he would’ve done with that, but he does put a hand on Draco’s arm for a moment which is nearly just as bad. The warmth sinks into Draco’s skin for just a second, making his blood go all tingly, before Potter removes it and looks at the ground. “At least I was able to... er,” he says, and stops short, as if he’s going to say something that would get him in trouble.

Draco stares at him for a second. And then it dawns on him. “You didn’t go in there already, did you?”

Potter nods at him sheepishly.

“Potter, you _idiot_ ,” Draco says, and now that he’s looking, he sees that that one of Potter’s shirtsleeves is singed. “Of all the _stupid_ bloody decisions—are you burned? Let me see that—” He snatches Potter’s hand, trying his best to ignore that he’s _touching him, again,_ and pulls up Potter’s sleeve.

“I healed it, it’s _fine,_ Draco—”

“And you know you’re bollocks at healing spells, so stay still,” Draco mutters, casting several times until the pink tinge on Potter’s arm fades. “You could have gotten _killed_.”

“But I didn’t,” Potter says, as if that excuses the behavior somehow. “And I saved them.”

“Saved _what?_ ” Draco says, squinting at the warehouse.

“Over there,” Potter says, pointing off to the side of their office building. “Your Wiggentrees.”

Draco’s heart skips a beat.

It’s the only thing in the warehouse that he’d raised by hand. He’s always had a soft spot for bowtruckles, as there’d been a section of Wiggentrees near his Mother’s favorite chair out in the Manor gardens, and Draco had often gone to sit there with her as a child, racing against her to see who could spot the first bowtruckle hiding in the branches.

The trees were one of the only things in the garden that survived after Voldemort took over the manor. Everything else wilted. The heaviness of the dark magic that filled the Manor then was too much for the delicate plants to flourish.

Right after Potter hired him, Draco had ever so carefully uprooted one of the trees from the Manor garden, keeping a safe distance from the bowtruckles as he planted it in hope of starting a small grove of his own.

And now it seems Potter has saved them. The only plants out of the whole damned warehouse.

“Potter,” Draco says, his voice coming out scratchy. “You didn’t have to—you shouldn’t have _risked your life_ for them, for _me_ —”

“I’m fine,” Potter says again, and then he smiles. “I promise.”

Draco stares at him, at his eyes dark in the dimness of the moonlight, at his rumpled hair and singed pajamas. It’s not fair. It’s not fair how _good_ Potter is, how selfless and giving and kind. And it’s not fair that he always, always extends some of that to Draco, even despite their awful past at Hogwarts. It’s not fair that he’s the only person who even spared a look at Draco’s job application after their eighth year, when everyone snubbed him for the mark on his arm; that he hired him without a second thought and then somehow proceeded to ignore their past treat him as if they’d been friends for ages.

It’s not fair that Draco is so, so madly in love with him, and right now they’re standing feet apart and he can’t bring himself to touch him.

Draco swallows hard. “You’re an idiot,” he says, his heard pounding in his chest.

Potter grins at him easily, and it’s _stupid_ how trusting he is of Draco all the bloody time. “So you say, every other minute of every single day.”

Caught between the desire to snap at him and the deeper, stronger desire to pull Potter to his chest, Draco does neither, instead glancing over at one of the MFErs who seems to be giving them a thumbs up.

The man jogs over, features unrecognizable in the moonlight. “We’re just about done here. We can take your statements now if you’d like, or you can come in to the office in the morning.”

Draco glances over at Potter, who suddenly looks tired and fragile, as easily breakable as the tiniest of young branches. “We’ll wait ‘til morning,” Draco tells the man, who nods and sends them on their way.

Silently, they walk back to the shop. It’s only when Draco lights one of the lamps that he realizes Potter is trembling. “Potter—are you okay?”

“I’m... I’ll be fine,” Potter says, and yawns. “Just tired.”

Draco glances over at their shop Floo, and then he clears his throat, thinking that he has to be mental to be doing this. “Would you... would you like to come to mine for a bit? Just for a cup of tea?”

Potter’s eyes widen a bit. “Oh, I—sure!”

He looks confused—and Draco himself is just as baffled, if not more, but he can’t take it back now. So he has no choice but to hold out his arm. “Shall we Side-Along?”

He miscalculated, because he didn’t think Potter would get quite so _close_ as he loops his arm through Draco’s, and for a second all Draco can think about is the woody smell of Potter’s shampoo.

But he manages to survive long enough to Side-Along them to his flat, Potter’s body warm and firm against him.

After that, he tries his best to distract himself from the fact that Potter’s in his house, putting the kettle on and then hiding in the kitchen until it’s done. When he brings the teacups to the sitting room, Potter is sitting in Draco’s usual spot on the sofa.

Draco wishes he were more annoyed about that.

Instead he can only think about the many times he idly daydreamed about making out with Potter on these very cushions, causing a thrum of lust to unspool in his veins.

There’s a chance he may just be royally fucked right now.

He tries his best to act normal as he sets the mugs down on the coffee table, ignoring the way his legs brush against Potter’s knees as he sits down on the opposite side of the sofa. He’s careful to leave a cushion’s worth of space between them, as if the invisible barrier between them can somehow make this easier.

_This_ is why he never hangs out with Potter. It’s too much. But Potter needs it right now, and Draco can’t help but to want to be there for him. Potter saved his fucking _trees_. The least Draco can do is suck up his stupid crush for an hour or two.

Potter picks up his tea and sips it. Then he lets out an approving moan, and Draco pretends that he’s not infuriatingly, deeply aroused by the sound. “You got the sugars right,” Potter says, grinning.

“It’s not Muggle science,” Draco mumbles, and really, it’s honestly easy to pick up on Potter’s tea drinking habits, seeing as he drinks several cups a day every morning at the office.

“Still,” Potter says, eyes soft and kind. “Thank you.”

There’s a bit of an awkward silence for a moment, and then Potter puts his mug down only half empty. Draco’s almost afraid he’s going to leave, so he blurts out—“I can show you my documents, if you like. I mean, the financial documents for the company. I have copies—”

“Don’t worry about it,” Potter interrupts. “I’m not here to discuss finances.”

“Oh,” Draco says, feeling distinctly ineloquent. His head is going all fuzzy from being so close to Potter, and he sips his tea, wishing that he could clear it.

“Draco,” Potter says, and then he shifts onto the middle cushion so that there’s less than a foot between them.

“Potter, what are you _doing?_ ” Draco asks, leaning away, trying the best he can to hide the unsteady thumping of his heart.

“Draco,” Potter says again, and Merlin, he’s so _close_. “We need to talk.”

Draco swallows thickly. “You’re—you’re not firing me, are you?”

Potter laughs, sending a flash of warmth through Draco’s skin. “No, no. It’s just, we’ve worked together for a long time, haven’t we?”

Draco nods hesitantly.

“And you didn’t like me all that much at the beginning.”

“No, I didn’t,” Draco agrees, thinking back to the one time they’d broken out into a fight, nearly destroying the beginnings of their office over some silly argument. He’d been so _annoyed_ with Potter all the time, annoyed with how nice Potter was with him all the time when Draco just wanted to fight. It took a long time for that feeling to fade away, and Draco almost wishes it hadn’t, because what had replaced it instead was this awful, all-encompassing _wanting_. Which Draco could do without, thank you very much.

“But I’d like to think we became friends,” Potter says. “A couple of years ago, right?”

“So what, Potter?” Draco says, distinctly aware that they’re close enough that Potter’s knee is brushing his own. He wants to shift away, but he can’t figure out a way to do it so that it’s not obvious, so he has to suffer through the unbearable pleasure that is touching Potter.

“So,” Potter says. “I want to know things about you. You never tell me _anything_ , and you never want to come to the pub with me, and—and you don’t hate me, I think.” His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows, suddenly looking nervous. “Do you?”

Draco is stuck, caught in the crossfire from Potter’s green, green eyes. He can’t look away, though he wants to terribly. He sighs. “No,” he says quietly, “I don’t.”

“Then why?” Potter asks, eyebrows furrowing. “Why do you lie to me?”

And Merlin, Draco suddenly feels so _guilty_ , because here he’s been saving his own arse and all the meanwhile it seems like—like he’s somehow been hurting Potter. “I didn’t think you cared,” he admits, digging his fingers into the fabric of the couch.

“I care about you,” Potter says matter-of-factly, as if it’s _nothing_ —stupid Gryffindors with their stupid, easy feelings. “And you cared about me, tonight, didn’t you? We’re friends, after all.”

“We see each other nearly every day,” Draco points out, trying to ignore that Potter’s absolutely right—Draco _does_ care, more than he can even describe. “Isn’t that enough?”

“See, this would all make much more sense if I thought you really didn’t want to be around me. But I talked to ‘Mione about it, and she said—she said I should talk to you, and she wouldn’t say why.” Potter looks slightly embarrassed. “I’m a bit awful at figuring people out sometimes. So, I’m doing it—I’m asking you what you’re thinking because I can’t _tell_ —”

“Well it’s none of your _business_ , Potter,” Draco snaps, and he hates the look of hurt on Potter’s face but Draco can’t help it because he’s panicking—Potter’s being all honest and talking about feelings, and Draco can’t tell the truth because if he tries, all of it’s going to spill out at once.

All the want and longing and the fact that Draco really fucking loves Harry Potter.

But Potter’s looking at him like he’s genuinely sad that Draco won’t talk to him about this, and Draco feels like he can’t _breathe_ so he stands up and pushes past Potter, walking out of the living room and outside onto the small balcony of his flat, where the air is clearer. It doesn’t help much.

He stands there until Potter follows him a few minutes later, coming up beside Draco where he’s leaning on the railing and trying not to drown. And Draco wishes he would just go _away_ but he doesn’t because it’s Potter, he’s stupid and persistent and that terrifies him.

It’s a moment later when Potter puts his hand on Draco’s arm, warm and calloused, and all the thoughts fall out of Draco’s head. “Draco,” Potter says, quiet and serious. “It’s not just you. This is hard for me too, okay?”

Draco clenches his jaw and looks at Potter, thinking he understands but not believing it one bit. “What do you want from me, Potter?” he asks, his voice suddenly hoarse.

Potter is firm when he says, “I think you know.”

Draco can’t do anything but wait until the wanting buries him alive, until his throat is on fire, burning him from the inside out.

It’s an embarrassingly short amount of time before he can’t take it any longer, before he finally, finally reaches up and threads his fingers through Potter’s stupid, messy hair—and kisses him.

_Oh_.

Suddenly he’s on fire in the best way possible, because for some reason Potter is kissing him _back_ , he’s sliding his arms around Draco’s back and pressing him up against the railing and kissing him and kissing him, biting and Draco’s lip and making him cry out with how good it feels.

And then Potter’s laughing.

“What...” Draco says, breath coming in heaves, feeling unsteady. “Why are you laughing?”

“I wanted this,” Potter says, grinning, kissing him again. “I’m happy.”

“You’re barmy,” Draco corrects, but he curls his hand around the back of Potter’s neck and kisses him back, feeling like he’s flying—and then Potter’s tongue is in Draco’s mouth and he can’t think anymore, his cock is suddenly throbbing as he presses up against Potter and groans. “Fuck.”

“I wouldn’t mind,” Potter says, grinning sharply, and Draco shoves him lightly on the shoulder.

Of course, that doesn’t stop him from dropping to his knees a moment later and reaching for the waistband of Potter’s pajamas, gasping at the way Potter’s already hard and pushing against the fabric. “D-Draco,” Potter says, “You don’t have to, really—”

“I want you so fucking much, Potter,” Draco admits, pressing his face into Potter’s hip, feeling a flush rising high on his cheeks. “Please, just let me—”

“Okay, okay, yes— _ah_ , _Draco_ —”

It’s been some time since Draco’s had his mouth on a cock, but this time puts all the others to shame because it’s _Potter’s_ cock, long and hard and beautiful, and the way Potter groans when Draco digs his fingers into his hips and sucks him down is enough fodder to wank to for months.

“Do—do that again with your tongue, _oh_ , yes, Draco,” Potter gasps out, trembling beneath Draco’s palms, and he presses down again until Potter hits the back of his throat, again, again.

“Stop, stop,” Potter moans, pushing at his shoulder. “I don’t—I want more, I don’t want to come like this—”

“Bedroom,” Draco growls, voice rough. And then, because he’s impatient, he stands up and Side-Alongs Potter there, and then they’re stumbling over onto the bed and Potter’s kicking his bottoms off. Draco pulls his own shirt off because he’s way too warm, and then he reaches for the bedside drawer, feeling around for the small bottle he’s used on countless nights lying here, dreaming of Potter as he touches himself.

He hands it to Potter, and then he spells his own pants off, looking away and flushing brightly. “Here,” he says, mortified but so, so turned on as he adjusts so he’s on all fours. “Please.”

“Oh _fuck_ , Draco,” Potter breathes, and then his hands are on Draco’s arse, spreading him open and squeezing.

“Hurry _up_ , Potter,” Draco groans, because he wants this so much he can’t bear it.

“All right, all right,” Potter says, laughter in his voice as he uncaps the lube.

Draco hears him muttering protection charms, and then his hands are back again, except this time there’s a warm, slick finger pressing at his entrance, and Draco cries out. “ _Merlin_ ,” he gasps.

“You might say my name instead,” Potter says, and Draco hates how rough and sexy Potter’s voice sounds right now.

“Potter,” he sighs, pressing back as Potter circles his entrance.

“No,” Potter says gently, pausing for a second. “Harry.”

“You’re going to make me go soft,” Draco accuses, looking over his shoulder, and Potter—Harry, he supposes, for now—laughs and leans forward to kiss the small of his back.

“Haven’t I already?” Harry says, and then before Draco can protest, he presses his finger inside Draco and Draco _keens_.

Harry sets up a painfully slow rhythm, letting Draco feel the length of his finger as he slips it in and out, and even though it burns Draco wants _more_ , always more. “Please,” he gasps, “More.”

“Only because you said please,” Harry quips, and adds another finger, and Draco spreads his legs further as Potter stretches him open, groaning.

“ _Fuck_ , I’ll say anything you want,” Draco groans as Harry adds a third finger, and Draco takes it, throbbing with the want that’s filling his chest.

“Okay,” Harry says, twisting his fingers and making Draco buck his hips. “Tell me how you feel about me, then.”

Draco sucks in a breath. “I can’t,” he says quietly, heart clenching. “I’m... I’m scared.”

Harry stops moving, and then he pulls his fingers out, leaving Draco empty and wanting. “Draco. You don’t have to be.”

Draco presses his forehead into the pillow in front of him, feeling more vulnerable and exposed than when Harry first saw him naked.

He can’t look.

“I’m in love with you,” he says, his voice catching as his breath goes ragged.

For a second, Harry says nothing, and Draco’s lungs seize in terror—but then Harry pushes at Draco’s hip, turning him over and climbing on top of him, and Draco can see that he’s smiling.

“I thought you might,” Harry says, and kisses him. He’s taken his shirt off at some point, so Draco gladly runs his hands over the muscles on his back, moaning and pulling him closer.

“And you?” he asks, pausing for air.

“I’m mad about you,” Harry says, gazing down at him. Then he nudges Draco’s legs apart, waiting for Draco to pull his knees up before positioning himself.

Harry rocks slowly inside of him, stretching him open and shattering Draco apart.

“Merlin, I need— _fuck me,_ Harry,” he cries out, because the desire is burning in his lungs and he _needs_ Harry, _now_.

Harry thankfully obliges, pulling out and sinking in again, all the way until he bottoms out, hard and thick inside Draco. Draco can’t think as he scrabbles at Harry’s back, finally gripping at Harry’s hips and urging him faster, harder, _fuck_. Harry picks up the pace, knocking the breath out of Draco with every stroke, and Draco arches his neck back and moans.

“ _Ah_ —nngh, Merlin, you—you feel good,” Harry pants out, the rhythm of his hips stuttering as he pushes himself so he’s leaning on one arm, reaching the other arm between them so he can stroke Draco’s cock.

Draco just about loses his mind.

Harry’s about five strokes in, pressing inside Draco in tandem with his hand, when Draco cries out and comes—“Oh, _Harry_ ,” he gasps, “ _Harry,_ ” and he shudders, clenching down on the hot slide of Harry’s cock as his thoughts spiral into oblivion.

“ _Nngh_ ,” Harry groans, shifting so he can fuck Draco harder, and it’s not long before he’s shaking, pulsing and spilling inside of Draco. That in of itself is so unbelievably hot that Draco’s cock twitches, and if he wasn’t completely worn out by now, he thinks he might want to go again.

But he’s tired, so he’s glad when Harry flops down beside him with a groan. Draco grabs his wand and casts a muttered cleaning charm over both of them, which thankfully rids his skin of the sticky, sweaty feeling that he hates.

“Mm, thanks,” Harry sighs, shifting closer slinging an arm over Draco’s stomach.

Draco pretends to be horrified. “You want to _cuddle_ ,” he says, even though he’s already turning, moving closer to Harry and pressing his face into Harry’s shoulder. “Gross.”

“Course,” Harry says, kissing him on the temple, and it’s dumb and sickeningly sweet but Draco _likes_ it, likes Harry—loves him, really.

“I’m a coward,” Draco says, looking up at Harry and feeling ashamed. “I could never have said anything.”

“It’s okay,” Harry says. “I can be a bit thick, you know, but it’s fairly obvious when you spend half of your time at work staring at me.”

Draco’s jaw drops open. “You _knew?_ ”

Harry grins mischievously. “I never take my shirt off when you’re not working with me. It was an experiment at first, but your face...”

“Shut _up_ ,” Draco mutters, blushing. “Tosser.” He shoves Harry in the shoulder for good measure.

Harry laughs and shoves him back. Except then somehow they’re making out again, slower this time, Harry’s lips soft against his own.

Draco pulls Harry’s body closer, tracing his hands over Harry's chest, and finally lets himself want him.


End file.
